


The Engineering Of Consent

by Saeva



Series: The Architecture Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Canon Divergence - Harry Potter & The Chamber of Secrets, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding, Harry's under 18 but over the age of consent, Humiliation, Inflation, M/M, Mild Painplay, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Ownership, POV Harry Potter, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sex, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Power Imbalance, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sex Magic, Sexual Violence, Shaving, That Isn't Saying Much, Threats, Voldemort is being nicer than he has to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeva/pseuds/Saeva
Summary: Ginny Weasley died and Voldemort was reborn. Now, four years later, on the eve of his wedding to Harry Potter, he intends to enjoy his victory. Harry, on the other hand, would just like to get through this without being Crucio'ed. [Please mind the tags.]
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Architecture Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632745
Comments: 28
Kudos: 454





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadejabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadejabberwock/gifts).



> Please, please do not read this if you're likely to be triggered by non-consensual sex. Harry's consent here is a technicality and it's very explicitly said and shown that, regardless of his physical response, he does not want this. 
> 
> Please also be aware that Harry is 16 years old in this fic. I haven't tagged it as underage as that's technically the age of consent but for anyone uncomfortable with reading about anyone under 18 having explicit sex this is not the fic for you. 
> 
> Also, everyone can blame Jade. She egged me on. Beta'ed by [GryphonFeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryphonfeather), who did a wonderful and super fast job.
> 
> [The bracelet](https://imgur.com/3rq2PgW) Harry is wearing.

August 1st, 1996

 _I expect you to join me shortly, dear._

Dear! Slightly hysterical laughter bubbles out of Harry, escaping into sound into the echo-y hallway of Potter Manor. 

Discovering that among the many, many other things that Dumbledore had kept hidden from Harry before his death was an ancestral home for the Potters had been a blow. Harry could almost forgive omitting the horcrux more easily than nearly destroying Harry's chance to walk in the halls that his father and father's father and so on grew up in. That the first time he walks these halls is the day of his wedding, when his wedding is a _bargaining tool_ , opens up a wound inside of him that he can spare no time or energy to tend to yet. For now, he keeps his feet moving forward, toward the family wing, the master suite, and his waiting husband. 

_Husband in name only,_ his mind protests, driving the thought out like a strike of violence. His stomach folds in on itself at the reminder that violence may not only be a metaphor tonight. 

Harry takes a deep breath and drags himself back under control: no inappropriate laughter or protesting thoughts or open wounds. His fingers go down to the almost delicate bracelet clasped around his wrist. Feminine and pretty, the silver working shows a snake eating its own tail, and the stones match the colour of his eyes. They look fragile with thin links in between and easily cracked gems making up the lion's share of the bracelet's structure. And yet. Harry had flung the fragile thing at the wall as hard as he could the night before, raging at the gift the way he couldn't the man, and blue spell light flared out to protect the whole. The stones are covered with protective spells, caging this fragile thing in invisible steel walls. 

Harry rather suspects that Voldemort sees the gift as a metaphor for Harry.

And still he clasped it around his wrist this morning. He wears it now. He’ll present himself to Voldemort wearing nothing but this stupid fucking thoughtful bracelet (because Voldemort hardly had to take the time out to pick out and ward a birthday present with everything else going on right now) minutes from now. 

He enters the Family wing, the glance of a spell confirming he belongs here, and follows the witchlights towards the only occupied bedroom. The door stands open a bare crack, a soft peachy light shining through. 

_I, Harry James Potter, do bind myself to Tom Marvolo Riddle in magic, in blood, in promises._

Harry’s hand shakes as he pushes on the heavy oak door, but he manages to steady it before he steps inside. 

“You took your time,” a deep voice says from further in the room. 

Every time he meets Voldemort again -- in a diary, in a graveyard, in the Department of Mysteries -- his voice changes, more achingly masculine. Every time they meet again, on the other side of the aisle from each other, Voldemort appears less serpentine and more painfully attractive. The man’s own explanation for that is the absorption of his horcruxes: first the Tom of the diary after the teen left Ginny Weasley a limp body too cold for rescue; then the Slytherin family ring currently hanging, cracked open and dark as night, from a hook inside the door; and finally, according to the most recent letter, the not-so-lost Ravenclaw diadem. 

Voldemort had ended that letter with the ominous comment that his Empress would, after all, need a crown. The diadem had been sent two days later by a special courier to be added to Harry’s bride price. If that price hadn’t also included the safety of everyone he held dear Harry would have protested what Voldemort chose to call it. As it was, he bit his tongue and had promised himself to do the same tonight. The vows are very clear: his friends are safe from all forms of harm by Voldemort and Voldemort's minions. Harry's protections don't extend nearly so far. 

Voldemort had been adamant about as much. 

_Apologise!_ Harry tells himself, taking in a shallow breath and moves further into the room. He must raise his chin in order to look Voldemort in the face, what with the older man’s 8 centimeter advantage, but he can see his mistake instantly in the clenching of the other man’s jaw. He drops his eyes, tilting his head down, and struggles to force an apology out.

“I needed a few minutes alone,” blurts out instead.

A warm, perfectly human hand -- large and male with calluses on his fingertips and the arch at the base of his thumb where the wand sets -- comes up to cup the side of his face. He braces himself for a different type of touch. “Then you should have asked me for that time before I left the dining room.” 

Harry’s stomach blooms with heat, imagining that -- sitting there as Voldemort stands to excuse himself from the wedding feast, and asking permission in front of everyone. Mortification fills him at the very thought.

 _§’You are capable of private speech with me even in a crowded room. I suggest you take advantage of that in the future.’§_ The disappointment hangs there between them for a long moment, Voldemort’s hand dropping away from Harry’s face after that. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, his lungs stinging as oxygen floods back in. “Er, alright. Yes.”

“Yes…?” 

“Yes, I’ll remember that.” Voldemort waits, a frown on his full lips, and Harry balks as he realises what for. But… upsetting the man who will shortly have him disarmed and on his back begs trouble he could avoid. “Yes, I’ll remember that, sir.” The approving nod unbalances him. How does the man even _want_ him to react to that? 

“Sit here.” A guiding hand goes to his shoulder and leads him over to a dressing table made of shiny dark wood and bronze finish, making gentle swirls in the wood, with a brighter wood flattop and a large tri-fold mirror that runs most of its length, standing another two feet high. There are two thick candles on a raised section framing the mirror, burning gently with some sort of spell blurring the light a bit, t. The same as the other candles in the room.

He has no idea what this table is doing here. 

Voldemort redid this entire suite to fit his tastes during negotiations after they settled on living at a Potter property. Why would he include a woman’s vanity table? For a table it seems solid and Harry likes the curved edges of the mirror with the carved frame, but… 

He sits on the dark padded bench and stares at the mirror, his stomach in knots. “I’m not a woman.” 

The taller man smirks in the mirror and Harry frowns at the reflection. “I’m aware.” 

“Are you? ‘Empress’. ‘Bride price’. A vanity dressing table for a new bonded. The sort that I’m sure Narcissa Malfoy has.” The smirk only grows and now he wonders if Voldemort got a recommendation from her. “I won’t --” 

“What? What won’t you do to protect your precious friends?” A dark eyebrow lifts and a hand comes up behind him, running long fingers through his messy hair. He wants to cut it shorter, more boyish, at that touch. 

“Well, I married you, so I guess there’s damn near nothing I won’t do.” 

Voldemort hisses, his grip turning painfully tight in a single breath, bending Harry’s head back until the younger man’s spine pops and then further still until it puts pressure on his chest, making it difficult to take anything but the most shallow of breaths. They stay there, Harry drawing air in slowly, Voldemort staring down at him with flashing red eyes, until the monster decides to loosen his grip. 

“Do not taunt me tonight, Harry.” And the hand lets go entirely. Harry forces himself to take slow breaths -- deep now but slow enough that the other man won’t have the satisfaction of seeing Harry gasping for air. He straightens his head, looking away from the mirror where he lets his vision blur. “As it happens I got you the table so that you would have somewhere to put your things and get ready in the morning now that you won’t be living out of your trunk like a school child.” 

_I am a fucking school child._ “Thank you, then.” 

Harry’s fingers go up to the latch of his dress robes to undo the intricate line of clasps and buttons. That takes some thought but the under robes are simpler. Under that he wears a thin cotton tunic and flowing trousers made of a light blue so sheer anyone could easily make out the colour of his pants. They’re lingerie, he knows, if more modest than Muggle lingerie would be, but the tailor Voldemort sent him insisted they were an expected part of wedding robes. 

The tunic comes next, dropping onto the vanity top as the cool air of the room pricks across Harry’s skin. The coolness soothes his heated skin but he's in no hurry to remove what's left of his clothing or to try to stand when Voldemort ordered him to 'sit' or to move this conversation to the bed. He knows all of those things will happen but he doesn't need to make those decisions. 

This is Voldemort's victory tonight.

“I do not believe you sound appreciative,” he says quietly, as sharp as a weapon, as weaponised as a threat. His hands come to rest on Harry’s shoulders, warm and large, and Harry struggles not to shudder. The touch neither hurts nor feels uncomfortable but he does not want it. 

He ducks his head as his lower lip trembles. He’s so fucking weak here it sickens him. And the upset builds underneath his skin until he slips off the vanity bench and onto his knees, looking up at Voldemort with a clenched jaw and impotent rage. “Thank you, Master, how may I possibly show my gratitude?” 

The words _drip_ sarcasm. He’s only surprised it isn’t a slap that he gets in response. 

Instead Voldemort’s large hands wrap over his shoulders, lifting him up bodily and slamming him into the wall behind him. The impact stings but it doesn’t hurt the way Harry expects it to hurt; this doesn’t have the weight or force behind it that he’s used to when being slammed against a wall. 

_Maybe he only wants my attention?_

“When I gave my… offer to your Ministry what did I ask for in return for my mercies for the undeserving?” Voldemort asks quietly, deliberately. Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t _know_ as the Ministry didn’t show him the total agreement. “When I offered you the well-being and uninterfered-with lives of your friends and their families, what did I ask for in return for my mercy?” 

That one he knows. “Me. Here.” 

“Where?” Voldemort’s head tilts slightly.

Harry’s mouth works slowly and he swallows hard. There are polite or political ways to put it, but he decides on, “Arse up in the marriage bed.” 

Voldemort’s beautiful mouth curls up in a sneer, his dark green eyes briefly flashing red in anger. A remnant. As a warning sign it’s very easy to catch, which Harry supposes he’ll appreciate when he calms down. “Crude and only partially correct.” 

“Oh, you’ll want other positions too?” 

Those sea green eyes close for a long moment before Voldemort looks at Harry again, so deeply and searchingly that Harry feels scraped raw inside and must look away. “Harry, I will have you. All of you. I suggest you make this easier on yourself and behave but even if you do not I will have you in the end.” His voice dips down at the end of this sentence, threatening. One of his hands goes down to Harry’s waist and then slips around, squeezing an arsecheek firmly. As the fingers slip a little more, pressing the lingerie trousers against his pants so that the cotton rubs over his hole he squirms. As Voldemort continues that small, teasing movement, he goes on, “Since you wish to be crude… 

“Tonight I will spend my seed in you. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. During the day, too, if I wish. This is not a marriage of equals. You belong to me. Now, would you like to behave as if you understand that fact?”

“Why? Why compromise at all?” Harry asks. He can’t not ask when given such a good opening. “Why not wage your war, do your best to win, do your best to track me down and take me?”

Voldemort sighs quietly. His other hand -- the one not still teasing a place Harry never realised was so bloody sensitive -- reaching up to stroke Harry’s cheek. The other hand stops teasing and withdraws, thankfully. “Because I care about my followers. When my sanity began cracking during the end of the last war I lost that but, thanks to Lucius Malfoy’s otherwise extremely poorly considered decision, I regained what I had lost when I was resurrected.”

Harry can’t help but suck in a breath because he knows Malfoy loosed the diary on Ginny, a loss Ron’s family still mourned four years later. 

“Continuing the war even with Dumbledore through the veil would be folly. I knew the Ministry would crack. I knew leveraging your friends was the best manner to bring you to hand. It would have been irresponsible of me to continue if I could end it with a few, small concessions.” 

“Oh.” The explanation rips the fight out of him. “But why this?” Thanks to the Dursleys Harry’s imagination for cruelty and humiliation exceeds most those his age, though he knows the Dursleys were neither clever nor imaginative. Tom Riddle, _Lord Voldemort_ , is both. “Should I be expecting to be paraded out with marks tomorrow to show everyone the completeness of your victory?” 

Voldemort hums, fingers trailing from Harry’s cheek to his neck. “Not a terrible idea.” And then his hand tightens, a bruising grip and the sudden loss of air making Harry kick out. He struggles but Voldemort knocks his hands back, a whip of magic dragging them together and a fierce hold banging them against the wall, yanking them over Harry’s head. He struggles but Voldemort uses his heavier and taller form to cross one leg over both of Harry’s and pin them to the wall for a moment. “Do not kick me again. I will release you in a moment.” 

But the moment stretches, the burning in Harry’s lungs growing unbearable even as he tries to stay still and endure, and his neck aches fiercely where the strong hand wraps tight around it. 

Voldemort relaxes his leg, Harry’s knee comes up to connect with soft, vulnerable flesh, and the hand releases his throat. This time he is slapped. Voldemort, wincing in pain, legs spread as if to alleviate an ache, towers over Harry’s crumbling form. Either his knees gave out when the slap knocked him into the wall or magic caused it but either way he kneels, far too close to the other man’s own feet and knees for his liking. 

“I had no intention of harming you tonight,” Voldemort says, deceptively lightly. Harry’s hand goes to his throat. “That frightened you, that is true, but the only damage is bruising. Marks, as you said, to show tomorrow. Unless you’d rather I put the marks in other places and remove your clothing in return.” 

The idea had crossed Harry’s mind in the weeks the marriage negotiations went on. Some of the images that came to him had been surprisingly arousing but most -- all the publicly humiliating ones, to start -- only worried him. Now he stares up at the other man with that worry unshuttered in his eyes. 

“You will be punished for the kick. However, I will not be parading you around partially or wholly naked in front of my Death Eaters. Without my expressed permission, such as when you see a Healer, you will not be in anything but a full state of dress with anyone besides myself from this night onward. You are mine. They will not lay eyes on what belongs to me.” 

Harry shivers and looks down, rubbing his neck a little harder. “Pu --” He coughs. It hurts to talk now but he is able to work through pain far past where he should be. This is nothing compared to scrubbing floors with a broken arm. “Punished how?” Then, in hopes it will help, because he does not want tonight to be worse than being choked felt, he adds, “Sir?” 

Voldemort crouches down in front of him, his hand coming back around Harry’s throat. 

Harry flinches, a shamed, “Please, no,” pushing through his bruised voice-box. 

“Shh, shh.” The other man runs a thumb thoughtfully over what must be forming bruises and then splays his hand, pressure growing, over Harry’s chest right below the neck to push him back into the wall. “Are you ready to behave?” 

“I… Why a marriage? Why not kill me? Or torture me in public. Or -- Why this?” 

A slow smile spreads over Voldemort's face, one so entirely pleased that Harry the couldn’t look elsewhere if he tried. "There's no downside for me. I concede the lives of a few insignificant people for complete ownership of you, my _equal_. And then I am able to train you, at my leisure and with a great deal of enjoyment, to proactively respond to my desires. Nothing could be sweeter than that, pet."

The tension falls out of Harry. If he hadn’t already been on the floor, already pinned to the wall by a man’s hand, he’d have collapsed from the way everything -- his fight, his energy, his strength -- goes out of him at those words.

“Oh.” He bites his lip. "So... you want me to obey you during sex? That's all you want from me." 

"So long as you don't cause trouble for me or my reign outside of the bedroom, yes. You'll have freedom of movement once I feel that I can trust you with it. If you prove your willingness to behave then I see no reason your little friends can't join you here in NEWTs tutoring in the fall.” The idea of being reunited with his friends sends a fierce bolt of joy through Harry and he listens to Voldemort’s calm tone as he insists: “Behave, in and out of the bedroom. That's all I want of you."

He doesn’t sound like he’s lying. Harry meets his eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Harry fiddles with the tie of his nearly sheer trousers and says, “Alright then.” It still hurts to speak but he presses on. “I want a list of rules and a list of ways you might punish me. Then I can give you what you want.” 

God help him ( _God wouldn’t help a freak like you._ ), he will give Voldemort what he wants. Harry gets his knees under him, kneeling again, without sarcasm this time. Voldemort’s hand pulls back with one last brush over the ring of bruises around his throat. A wand comes up, making Harry tense, but he only feels a warmth inside of his throat and the easing of pain when he swallows. 

“The bruises remain but when you behave you’ll be rewarded. I’ve healed the inside of your throat now. Does it hurt to swallow or speak?” 

Harry swallows again. “Not swallowing.” There’s no pain when he speaks. “It feels better. Thank you.” He glances down between Voldemort’s crouching legs. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“I understand,” the other man says quietly, running a hand through Harry’s messy hair. “And I am willing to forgive if you’ll demonstrate you mean as you say. Come now. Kiss each of my boots and I believe we can forego punishment.” 

He hissed out a breath, balking at the idea, then balking at the idea of what Voldemort might do if he says ‘no’. Forgiveness is good. Forgiveness will keep him safe. Humiliation is… His chest aches but humiliation _is_ better than pain. “Okay.” It isn’t the worst punishment Voldemort can think up, Harry’s sure. His stomach squirming with embarrassment, he leans forward to quickly peck each toe. His cheeks burn with heat and he keeps his head down. 

Then Voldemort strokes his hair and says warmly, “You did so well, Harry. It’s all forgiven. You’ll get your rules and the potential punishments for violating them. You deserve as much for how you’re trying to be good.” And Harry’s stomach squirms in a new way. His cheeks heat in a new way. 

“Er, thanks.” 

The older man chuckles, his laugh deep and warm. “You want to be good, don’t you? It’s not your fault that no one’s showed you how before. Stand up for me. That’s it.” 

They stand together. His hand comes up to squeeze Harry’s bum. “These garments, which you’ll be stocked with, are not intended to be worn with any underclothing. Next time you’ll know better than to wear pants underneath. For now…” With a flick of his wand the pants disappear, leaving Harry’s privates outlined through the sheer loose slacks. 

Harry nods slowly. “I’ll change into them at night.” He can do that if it helps him.

But Voldemort tsks. “You’ll wear them under your clothes. I want to know that if I strip off your robe I’ll find you in such pleasing clothing.” With a quiet hum his hand reaches down to stroke Harry through the silky fabric, wrapping the softness and the warmth of his hand around Harry’s shaft to squeeze it once. “Yes. That sounds nice. When I need a break from my work I can call you into my office and open you like a present with the perfect wrapping. Underneath a proper robe -- for modesty’s sake, of course.” 

_Not worse than being tortured. Not worse than my friends being hurt._ Harry squeezes his eyes shut and gives the smallest of nods. The hand still holds his cock and that feels good in a way that makes him shiver. No one’s ever touched him there before. 

Abstractly he knows Voldemort is much, much older than him, but the man doesn’t look older than 35 or 40. Still a strange distance, still too much, but better than the truth. He has no idea how they’re supposed to make a ‘marriage’ out of their… relationship to each other. He’s not even sure that’s what the older man wants.

It’s clear his interest isn’t really necessary for this. Harry’s already consented -- threatening his friends secured as much -- and that seems to have been enough for the other man. 

Words try to burst out of him, words like, ‘Aren’t you a bit old to get it up that much?’ but he knows he’ll be in trouble for saying them so he swallows them down. Instead he stands very still and tries not to think about the hand on his cock too much. 

“Would you like to orgasm, Harry?” Voldemort asks. 

Harry’s cock twitches, traitorously, and he breathes out slowly. “I’d rather get to the part where you… Where the marriage is consummated.” 

The other man laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes Harry’s tummy feel twisty. The slow slide of the hand holding him makes him ache to rock forward but he won’t give this man that satisfaction. 

“So crude you were before and now you’re being so demure,” that deep voice says, leaning forward to murmur it in his ear. 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Demure? Reserved. Modest. Shy.” Voldemort begins to run his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, his gaze locked on the repetitive motion. “I do prefer my spouse behave demurely rather than crudely, Harry. You may whore yourself out to me, for the safety of your friends -- I know you are only interested in the safety of Muggleborns because of your Muggle-tainted witchling.” The thumb pushes in, brushing Harry’s tongue, and he resists the urge to pull away. He is doing this for Hermione -- for her and Neville and Luna and the Weasleys. It’s almost a relief to have someone else say, out loud, that Voldemort bought him for that price. “And, because I am a gracious lord, I will allow her, as my loyal consort’s dearest friend, some liberties in retaining her connection to her _Muggles_.” 

Now he does pull away but only to say, “Thank you.” He means it. The segregation order came down the first day of Voldemort’s power and to know that Hermione, at least, will be able to see her parents again is a relief. “Really, thank you. I… I’ll remember that you don’t want me to be crude.” 

Don’t be crude. No pants, only the sheer underclothing. Obey orders. 

These things he can manage, he thinks. 

The hand that had been on his cheek moves down, brushing along his jawline. “See that you do. And you may be the whore, if you wish to see it in that manner, but you will not act it. Are we clear?” 

_Don’t be a slut._ “We’re clear.” He tries to bring his hands up to Voldemort’s neck, to remove the ornate dress robes now in a bit of disarray from their struggle, but his fingers clench halfway up. _’Then I am able to train you to proactively respond to my desires’._ He ends up lacing his hands together, the palms cool against his warm chest, and when Voldemort slides his hand over Harry’s cock again the younger man manages not to moan. He will obey but he won’t give his ‘husband’ anything he doesn’t ask for. 

“As you asked for this to move along... I suppose we’ll postpone your orgasm for now.” The hand leaves and Harry reminds himself that he wanted that, he wanted the hand off of him. It’s bad enough Voldemort will enjoy this. “Move over to the bed, facing it.” 

In an instant Harry’s mouth goes dry and he struggles not to cough as he walks stiffly over to the bed. It’s a high bed, the mattress at the level of his upper abdomen. He’ll have to climb in. But before he can Voldemort’s hand touches his back, pressing hard against it. He stumbles, catching himself on the duvet, but then hands on his hips lift him up and bend him -- 

Oh. His feet don’t touch the ground, bent at the waist over the bed, except in the grasp of his tiptoes and he shudders when ropes twist around his wrists, attached all the way to the headboard of the overly large bed. On instinct he struggles, freezing only when Voldemort grabs his ankle as his foot comes up. The fingers strangle the skin, digging into bone, making the ankle bend upward with his toes pointed towards the ceiling. 

“I have already decided that tonight will not be so kind for you as I originally intended. If you kick me again nothing will convince me out of punishing you. Do you wish to be punished, Harry?” As he speaks he slips the soft soled shoe -- provided, again, by the tailor, to the Dark Lord’s specifications, like the entire bloody wedding -- off the foot he holds. When Harry says nothing a sudden slap to the bottom of his foot makes him jerk it and wince. “When I ask a question I expect to be answered. Do you wish to be punished?” 

“No.” Another slap. “No, I don’t want to be punished.” Another. “Please! Voldemort...” 

“Marvolo will do. Sir as well.” His foot drops and _Voldemort_ picks up the other one, stripping it off too. Then that one he sets down gently before reaching to -- 

_Oh, god. Oh, god._

The sheer underclothes trousers -- pants, he needs to think of them like pants, because he won’t have -- They’re dragged over his bum and left clinging to his thighs. He’s bare. Voldemort’s behind him and he’s tied up and he’s bare and he -- He won’t kick. He won’t.

He does not wish to be punished. 

He does get a grip on the rope reaching out toward the headboard, wrapping his fingers on the main line above the… rope cuffs, they look like cuffs, around his wrists. On the arm with the bracelet the rope has pushed it up, around his forearm, rather than tying around it to press the hard gems into his skin. His knuckles go white as a very warm, very real hand runs over one of his cheeks, and he forgets about the bracelet. Then a strange sizzle of power along his cleft and a sting at his hole drags all his attention there. 

“A simple spell to clean you up for penetration. You’ll become quite familiar with casting it.” His chest clenches at the implication, at what being made to make himself ready for Voldemort to fuck him means, but Harry says nothing. 

He’ll obey orders. That’s all Voldemort gets. 

A strange wetness touches his hole, rubbing around it, and he squirms at the sensation. Another little rub and he realises, face flaming hot, that it feels almost as good as the hand on his cock did. And the feeling doesn’t go away as the touch stays firm but not pressuring, constant but always moving, and his stomach begins to twist in an all too familiar way. 

It only helps a little that, tied on his stomach like this, the other man can’t see Harry’s erection. 

And somehow he manages not to squirm or rock against it until the tip of something cool and very wet presses the hole inward. He opens to it slowly, something that’s neither Voldemort’s fingers or his cock, being both too cool and too hard for that. 

Finally Voldemort speaks, his voice dropping deeper (like Harry’s does when he’s aroused... ). “I cannot, of course, expect you to take me without preparation. I could stretch you open with my fingers until you shake and beg for me -- “ _I wouldn’t. I won’t beg!_ “ -- but for now I think plugging you is the best course.” 

“Plugging.” Harry breathes out, almost hysterically. What does that even mean? 

“Mmm. From a set of wooden plugs I had made specially for you. Well, and for me, of course.” The pressure keeps up, stinging a little now, but the… plug, the wood, rocks steadily, backing off and pushing forward until the sting gives in and -- 

It’s in. It’s in him. He can’t. He can’t -- His foot comes up again, punishment be damned, and the wood jars something that slaps the breath from him. He lowers his foot carefully but it happens again at the movement. 

“What’s happening!” He didn’t mean to say that out loud. He’s hyperventilating, he knows it.

Voldemort strokes down his back, petting him, as if comforting him the way you would a child or a scared animal. He repeats the motion, his hand firm and warm. “The plug is long enough to brush against your prostate. That is a small gland that deals with erections, ejaculation, and has a great deal of nerves around it. When you move, well --” 

Hands wrap around Harry’s shins, lifting him easily onto the bed, his erection dragging over the duvet, the plug pressing inside of him and on the rim of his hole. And he moans. He can’t not, the sound punching out of him in a gasp of sound at the overwhelming sensation. 

“Would you like to orgasm now, Harry?” 

_Yes!_ His stupid cock aches and he knows any real amount of touching will make him shoot. But… “What will you do if I say no?” 

“Continue on with my plans. The same thing as I’ll do if you say ‘yes’. Orgasming will help you relax some. Wouldn’t you like that?” Voldemort’s voice is low, raspy, almost syrupy sweet.

He doesn’t think he can relax. He knows he doesn’t want to be relaxed because Voldemort touched him like that. “I want to finish this.” 

“I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I have plans for a very, very long night ahead for you.” A tap to the plug makes Harry clench down and -- 

He might come. But he doesn’t. Not yet. He latches onto the words. “Plans? What… What do you have planned?” 

“Mmm.” Gentle hands turn him over, rearranging his body like he’s a doll so that he’s sitting. His hard cock stands obvious between his legs and he yanks at his hands but the ties don’t have enough slack, this far down the bed, to allow him to cover himself. Voldemort vanishes the pants around Harry’s thighs a moment later and he’s naked. He looks away. “Did you know the MInistry argued there needed to be witnesses to the consummation? It comes from an old practice in political marriages where magical ties were reliant on the wedding being confirmed.” 

“People here?” Harry jerks a bit, but keeps his eyes down. If there’s people here they’re invisible. 

“We’re alone. I’m going to provide a short memory instead so that they might be assured the vows will settle. A very short memory. The rest of the night is for only us.” 

“You,” Harry says quietly, shifting. He regrets it when it moves the plug inside of him. “For you. I’m only here for you.” 

“Oh, darling, watching you experience the pleasure of my touch is for me.” Voldemort takes Harry’s chin, lifting it, and smiles down at the younger man. His coal black hair glints a little in the low light. “And so you will show your pleasure. Do you understand?” 

“What do you have planned?” 

“Now, that depends. Are you certain you don’t wish to orgasm now?” He nods and Voldemort brings his hand up to Harry’s mouth. “Move up the bed, far enough that you can get your hands underneath you for balance.” 

The jostling goes on forever as he’s repositioned on his elbows and knees, feet toward the headboard. He has to move almost halfway up the bed to do it and every millimeter costs him. He desperately wants to come, for the pressure to be relieved, for the release of it, but that’s -- That’s what Voldemort wants and he doesn’t want to give the man anything. 

When Voldemort’s wand slashes down, dragging his rope cuffed hands together and locking them with magic, Harry breathes through it, thinking about anything else except the constant throbbing ache in his cock. 

The rope slipping around his ankles almost undoes him, but this time Harry doesn’t struggle, doesn’t give Voldemort the show, and ends up staring stoically at the far wall. One small mercy: Harry’s privates are hidden by this position. The end of the ‘small’ plug isn’t but he does his best to ignore the hard wood that shifts inside of him every time he tries to settle. 

“Open your mouth.” 

An order. Harry obeys it. Then Voldemort kneels in front of him, parting the deep green silk of his dress robes and undoing the trousers underneath. He wears no pants. When he takes out his cock, standing proudly erect, the cap revealed and already shiny with seed, Harry snaps his mouth shut. 

Voldemort chuckles. “Harry, open your mouth.” 

“You only need to --” No, don’t be crude. Harry takes a deep breath. “Take me. This isn’t… that.” 

The too large hand strokes his hair but he can feel the tension running through the other man’s touch. “No, it is not. It is an act you’ll become quite readily capable of, however. Now, I’m being patient. I’ll tell you a third time: Open. Your. Mouth.” 

No need to say there won’t be a fourth.That Voldemort will have his mouth open, one way or another, and if he does so it will be much, much more unpleasant than obeying now. Harry pants, quick little breaths he can’t control, and slowly, as slowly as he dares, opens his mouth. Opens up to take the Dark Lord’s cock. _Get through it. Get through it and he’ll come and you’ll be done._

“Good.” For a long moment Voldemort does nothing, then dark green fills Harry’s vision -- enhanced with a potion as his new husband hadn’t liked the glasses -- along with tanned flesh. Then a pungent taste and the heat and weight of the tip of Voldemort’s cock enters his mouth. Harry tries to swallow away the taste and the lick of it makes the older man groan. 

Harry pulls his head back. The taste isn’t bad, only strong, but he doesn’t know how to handle this. “I need -- I need a minute.” 

“You only needed to ask, dear one,” Voldemort tells him, easing back. 

He finally begins to undress, removing his dress robe and tossing it to the hamper with magic. His underclothes are more dignified than Harry’s had been, loose but not sheer, and he removes only the tunic. Harry tries not to look, tries staring at the duvet, but when the other man moves, his own eyes glance up to the muscular chest of his unwanted husband. Riddle has always been unfairly fit, with a pretty face, but age, or the illusion of age, broadened that prettiness into something more masculine. To know that, under it all, Riddle’s well shaped helps nothing. 

Voldemort is a monster. Angelic looks change nothing. 

But… _’You only needed to ask.’_ Harry breathes in slowly, then tries, “Please, could we… Could I learn this later?” 

Hot, hot fingertips run over his bare spine and he shivers. When those fingers move down, into his cleft, his breath hitches and he tries to hold it. Voldemort tugs gently on the end of the plug: tugging it out, pressing it in, twisting it. And Harry holds his breath, holds in the moans that threaten to push through, holds his body rigidly as he desperately fights off the urge to grab his cock and finish this. And still it goes on, until he must breath, until he’s bending his neck, pressing his forehead to the duvet and moaning when he can between his panting breaths. 

Finally, it stops. Voldemort speaks: “Unless you are prepared to beg, no, you will learn at least the basics of this now.” 

With a clench of his stomach that has nothing to do with his _aching_ dick, Harry knows he won’t beg. Voldemort must know this too. 

“Fine. Can I at least learn without the ropes?” He lets a little pleading into his voice, hoping to placate the man.

A small pinch along his thigh brings all his attention there. The sting feels strange when the rest of him is so far from pain. “Being polite when you ask me for things will take you a lot further, little prince.” 

“Will you please take the ropes off of me, sir? I promise I won’t hit or kick you again.” Harry hates the way his voice sounds here. How defeated he is. 

He hates more how reasonable Voldemort sounds when he says, “I shall give you an opportunity to prove your words on the condition that you participate more actively. Allowing you to do nothing more than open your mouth for me was a _kindness_ to grant you additional time to adjust. Now, you will at least fake enthusiasm. Do you still want the ropes off?” 

Being tied down like this reminds him too vividly of Harry Hunting, or being held down by rough hands so that the others might cause him more harm. It never got to this, they were all too young, but he hates the reminder. It’s worth the cost. He doesn’t have to enjoy it, only has to pretend he wants to be here. 

“I do. I’ll participate. I don’t know if I can be _enthusiastic_.” 

“Hmm. Let me handle that.” The spells release suddenly, his hands and ankles free, but he doesn’t yank away. He’ll only be tied up again if he does. Then another spell, the warm buzz of magic on his skin without any obvious results, makes tension build its way into his already tight shoulders. But he says nothing. “Now, begin by licking the head.” 

_That’s an order. I can obey orders. I will obey orders._

Harry brings his hands up, more afraid of having no control than he is of adding to the order. Witchlight plays in the corners of the beds, attached to the bed posts, and it gives him a clear view. Voldemort’s cock stands erect, smoother than Harry’s own, and big enough to force a bit of panic up through him. 

“You’re big,” he says quietly. “I don’t know how…” 

“This is why I needed to plug you,” Voldemort tells him. “I wouldn’t want you to be hurt. In fact, I’ll allow you a moment of reprieve here. Stay in that position.” Harry’s chest flutters with nerves but he gets his breathing under control as Voldemort leaves the bed. When he returns he climbs at Harry’s side, holding something -- 

_Oh._ That looks too big too, even now that he knows it’s still much smaller than the man’s cock. This piece of wood has a round base and a narrow bit that flares out and tapers. Like a small pear. Not _too_ small, though, and maybe 2.5 centimeters at the widest. 

When Voldemort tugs this time, Harry’s entire focus goes to the rim being tugged on, the push and pull of it until reluctantly his body gives up the plug that’s been inside of him. And he feels _empty_ and opened wide, his hole twitching until Voldemort slips two fingers inside and spreads them. That helps some but the fingers leave quickly. Then another push and a stretch, stretch, stretching him even more open, pressing in to make him even more full. The wood plunges even deeper into him, lighting up that little spot with every breath he takes, and Harry whines against his arm. 

It’s bigger and longer and not even nearly enough for him to take his _husband_ ’s cock. 

“There you go, little one. Now, you were given a task.” 

Voldemort moves, and even that’s a sort of pleasurable torture with the jostling of the bed, but he doesn’t make Harry change position. He only goes back to where he was, kneeling in front of Harry with a hard cock. 

“I don’t know how to…” Not crude… “Please you.” 

“Oh, you’re pleasing me already. But for that, take the base of my cock in your hand again.” A large hand buries itself in his hair, tugging him gently forward, and he reaches out to obey, using his other hand to balance. It feels incredibly hot in his hand, much hotter than the other places he’s touched, and oddly heavy. 

But then, as he squeezes the way Voldemort squeezed him, pleasure shoots through his own cock. “What --” 

“You’re only receiving a small echo. This way you will be able to feel what I am feeling and respond appropriately.” The hand runs through his hair and, then, “Go on then. Lick the head next. I enjoy little teasing licks before my lover moves on.” 

_I’m going to come._ It’s… inevitable. The plug dragging a touch of pleasure from him with every inhale, the echo of Voldemort’s pleasure when even the slightest touch now would make Harry shoot. 

He knows it will happen and then he leans forward to flick his tongue over the tip of Voldemort’s cock. He does it twice, licking up the pre-come pushing up out of the slit, and the echo of the tongue on his cock head makes him cry out. Another two times, the lightest touch, lighter still on his own nerves, and orgasm rushes at him. He pulls back from it, from the man he’s meant to be obeying, and Voldemort’s hand tightens in his hair. 

“You needn’t worry about my response. You have permission to come.” Harry’s cock jerks at the thought that he might come, his mind jerks at the thought that he might need permission. “A little more now. Lick a bit harder.” 

He does, a full shudder running through him at the sensation. And then harder still. But he breathes deep and keeps the need to release at bay. 

“Now, take the head in your mouth and suck as you would a lolly.” He does. And his body spasms. “Ah, close now, dearest? Keep sucking. Take all of it in and suck like a good boy.” 

He sucks hard, like gulping down water when desperate with thirst, and the echo on his own cockhead makes him clench. The plug rubs against that little bit of nerves. And he takes more, opening his mouth wider, rubbing his hand up and down, and sucking. Sucking until all the need, all the pressure, all the throbbing want of it all pulses out of him onto the bed, four little throbs as his body lights up in bliss. 

He pulls back before he chokes and lets himself feel it. His first orgasm at Voldemort’s hands. Hands that cup the back of his head and bring it forward, back to the man’s cock, and Harry whimpers when just closing his lips around the head of his cock reverberates through his own oversensitized parts. 

“Too much. Too much.” _Ask. He’ll demand you ask._ “Please take the spell off, sir.” 

Voldemort pets his hair. “I’ve decided that ‘sir’ will not do. Sir is what you call your professor. From now on you will address me by my name -- Marvolo -- or, if you do wish to be formal, then by ‘husband’. Now: again. Formally.” 

Harry’s face burns with the command, both humiliating and angry that Voldemort has ordered him to acknowledge their stupid, political marriage. But it is a command. So he obeys. “Please take the spell off, hus-- husband.” Just the word coming out of his mouth strings him with tension and he wishes it would make him sick, kill the arousal entirely, but no matter what he thinks his body… _I am more than my body._

“Of course.” The warmth again.

This time when the hands drag him up against the other man’s cock he can’t feel an echo of his breath on the shaft. Or the touch when he goes to brace it again. But it makes him all the more aware of what he does.

Of the weight of the cock in his hand, the way his bracelet clinks quietly as he strokes.

Of the musky smell of it and the thick taste of the steady precome painting his lips when he presses in with a kiss.

Of the thickness as it fills his mouth, the sheer size as he struggles to suck in more than the head. 

Of Voldemort’s hand petting him and Voldemort’s silky voice murmuring approval. 

Of the other man’s hips beginning to rock, sliding the cock deeper into Harry’s mouth until his throat spasms. 

He yanks his head back, swallowing hard. “Too deep.” 

For a long moment he gets no response -- no agreement or Voldemort moving his head, no argument either -- before his head tilts up to the darkest green eyes, pupils blown in arousal. A wand comes up in the corner of his vision and Harry goes to jerk away but… to what? What point? Where can he go? What can he do? 

“I’m going to relax your throat, little one,” his husband tells him. 

The spell casts. And Harry can feel the muscles of his throat going loose. He can still swallow but it takes more effort. And when the older man guides his cock into Harry’s mouth, a hand on Harry’s chin to keep his head tilted, he stays put. A single thrust in and his mouth stretches around it, his lips pulled wide and curled inward to cover his teeth, his tongue outstretched, his throat relaxed and ready. His husband slides all the way in, until Harry feels the brush of silky pubic hair against his nose and the painful force of the cockhead in the top of his throat, and then the invasion stops. But Harry simply stays where he was put.

His jaw aches but he stays there. He can feel the gooey trail of saliva dripping onto his chin and throat but he stays there. He can only breathe through his nose and only when the other man rocks back but… he stays there. 

“So good for me.” The husky edge of the man’s voice thrums with approval. “Mmm. A reward for being good is in order.” 

And then: the plug moves. It _throbs_ and rocks. It knocks hard against his prostate. And Harry moans around the cock fucking his throat with what little air he can gather. 

Voldemort pulls out and Harry gasps, chest heaving, head hanging when the strong hand releases his chin, his hips rolling against air and arse clenching around the plug. He spits out more saliva onto his chin and savours breathing. 

“Must I teach you manners?” the deep voice threatens.

A clench of fists. He didn’t choose this pleasure. He didn’t ask for it. Why should he be grateful then? But, then, this isn’t about gratitude; this is about humouring the man who can treat him like a toy. 

Still, he says, “It’s a distraction from my task. I want to get that right.” He isn’t lying. 

And yet Voldemort sighs, a short, exasperated thing, as if Harry’s being difficult. 

A warm cloth begins to wipe his face, his throat, and part of him wants to do that for himself. A larger part knows that Voldemort wouldn’t allow him. He wants Harry to feel helpless; that’s all too obvious. 

_I can play into it,_ the idea slips inside of Harry’s thoughts without his permission, a Slytherin-like cunning he’s rusty at. _It’s not a lie, not truly._

With a lick of his lips, he rocks into the still throbbing, moving hard wood inside of him and when it presses against his prostate he clenches and whines. “Hus- band.” 

The word still fights behind his teeth, breaking out with a gasp as the older man’s eyes go dark-dark-dark with arousal. The warm, damp cloth works over Harry’s mouth, his chin, his throat, and down to his chest, cleaning him of the saliva that pooled when he was too full to swallow. That feels… nice, nice that Voldemort might take the time to clean him up, make him more comfortable. Harry can cling to that type of kindness. Use it to help make the situation bearable. 

If the plug keeps moving he’ll harden again. He’s all too sure of that. And… “You said you planned a long -- a very, very long -- night ahead for me. What -- What does that mean?” His chest clenches and his head pounds, uncertain he even wants to know. It can’t be anything good for him, can it? 

“Oh, little one…” Voldemort nearly coos it, like he’s fond of Harry… or Harry’s uncertain, almost frightened questions ( _What if he wants me frightened? Merlin, what am I going to do?_ ). “I have had six weeks of negotiation to consider precisely what I wish to do with you on our marriage bed. To research how I might achieve most of those things. And tomorrow, when you go to dinner limping, bruises around your neck, and squirming from how oversensitive you feel, I will have the satisfaction of knowing this is only the beginning.

“I have always had difficulties trusting my sexual partners with my true desires, but you are magically bound to be unable to betray me as I am unable to betray you.” His hand slips down to pull the plug a little further out and Harry, squirming, feels his own muscles pull the wood back inside of him. “I don’t know if I’m pleased or surprised you’re enjoying this so much on your own.” 

Heat rushes through him and Harry pushes himself away from Voldemort, away from the man’s lap and the warm cloth, away from the humiliating words. But a hand strikes out, sudden and clasping, wrapping fingers around the length of Harry’s shaggy hair. 

“You do not push yourself away from me like that.” 

His whole body trembles, kneeling naked and aroused on the too high bed and the soft, fluffy dark blue duvet. Kneeling in front of his husband. And the man he belongs to. Voldemort could have been more polite but not more honest. And Harry, to his growing shame, feels his eyes burn with tears he blinks back. The sarcastic ‘I’m sorry for having an emotional response, Master’ echoes like a scream in his head, but he says, “Yes, husband,” quietly and drops his eyes. 

He does not wish to be punished. 

Don’t be crude. Wear the things bought for him. Obey orders. Don’t push away. 

‘Allow touch from your husband’ only makes sense as an addition so he puts it on the list.

Don’t be crude. Wear the things bought for you. Obey orders. Don’t push away. Allow him to touch you how he wants. 

Voldemort’s hand releases Harry and he braces for the punishment. After a long moment he looks up, confused, and sees the dark green eyes watching him. 

“What are you waiting for?” He flushes. Right. He had a task. He reaches out for the other man’s lap without allowing himself to think on it too much, but then a hand -- a more gentle hand -- stops him. “No, I meant a moment ago. You braced yourself.” 

“You were angry… are angry?” Harry bites his lip and then urges himself to let go, not wanting to bite through it when, if, Voldemort strikes him. “I broke a rule. One I should have known was a rule even without a list.” 

“I see.” Now that hand that grabbed him so tightly strokes his hair back instead and then, strangely, nudges him to bend forward. He goes back on his hands and knees, not sure what else to do, and gasps when two strong strikes come down on his bum, jostling the plug inside of him. “There, now. You’ll obey the rule going forward?” 

Harry swallows. “Yes.” 

“Good then.” A warm hand rubs over his bum, over the smarting skin like… no one’s ever done this in his conscious memory, soothed a small hurt of his, but it is soothing. Even though the man himself caused it. “I won’t cause you any unnecessary harm, dearest. I even took steps to ensure you’d enjoy yourself on some level tonight.” In a sudden flick, the plug stops moving and Harry breathes a... a release of tension. The arousal still pools within him, growing, and every little move makes the plug rub teasingly, deepening the pool. 

Voldemort slips off the bed, his greater height making it a graceful step off onto the floor. From there he walks over to a wardrobe tucked away in the corner and brings out a potion that glows a dazzling blue in the witchlight. 

Harry stares at it as the older man explains, “This guarantees arousal. In someone of my age it allows me to enjoy myself more thoroughly. In someone your age, it would depend on whether or not you were already aroused. If not, it would cause arousal. If so, such as now, it would cause a fevered state of desperation so intense that you would debase yourself in any manner I desired, if only I would fill you with my cock.” Harry shudders but does not, as the potion is brought closer, pull away. 

He does not pull away when Voldemort returns to the bed. He does not pull away as the potion, which smells of sugared blueberries, is uncorked. He does not pull away as Voldemort brings it up to his lips.

But Harry does say, “Please don’t.” 

And Voldemort’s hand lowers. “Whyever not? It would take your hesitation away. It would take the conflict away. You couldn’t be held responsible for your actions or your enjoyment of my touch under the influence of this. Isn’t that what you wish? A way to distance yourself from the fact you are enjoying my touch? You fought with such determination against orgasming. A small drink of this and none of that would be under your control any longer; no one, not even yourself, could fault you for what happens next.” 

For a breath it tempts him. One sip to simplify a complicated night with complicated feelings. But it’s a lie. “I’d still be responsible for taking it.” 

“I could force you. Take it out of your hands.” 

“Please don’t.” Harry breathes out shakily. “I can’t stop you but I’m asking: please, Vol -- Marvolo, don’t drug me.” 

The cork goes back in. The potion floats gently to a side table. And Voldemort cups Harry’s cheek. “As you asked for, for now. Come with me.” A hand circles around his wrist, pressing the gems of the bracelet against his skin, inexorably pulling Harry -- who stumbles off the high bed -- towards one of the ornate doors in the room. 

This one leads to a spacious bathroom, full of gleaming white porcelain and dark blue stone. A raised platform leads to an inset tub -- or small pool -- similar in style to the prefect’s bathroom, though smaller in size. Most of the floor and walls are made of dark blue stones, almost pebble-like in texture when Harry brushes his free hand over the wall. The floor feels smooth and gleams. There’s shelves and cabinets for towels and toiletries but no toilet; that must have been off one of the other doors. 

On one side of the tub is a raised space on the platform that has room for sitting. But after spreading a cushy looking towel over the hard stone tile Voldemort orders him to lay down on his back and close his eyes. 

Keeping his eyes closed as he hears Voldemort move around the room challenges Harry, who finds himself tempted to peek as time stretches and the other man still does not return. “Sir?” 

“Husband,” Voldemort corrects gently, his voice soft and slightly distant. Harry hears a cabinet opening. 

“What are you doing?” 

“You’ll understand in a moment. You can be patient for me, yes?”

Harry’s stomach twists. Be patient _for_ Voldemort. That’s more complicated than having patience somehow. Be patient _for_ Voldemort. Be good _for_ Voldemort. 

“Yes, I can.” And Harry is. He waits, eyes closed, even as he feels the other man sit down next to him. A warm, warm cloth covers his groin, giving him some level of modesty again. He hears the clink of objects but he keeps his eyes closed. 

Voldemort pets his hair, running long fingers through it and humming quietly under his breath. Finally, he takes the cloth off, revealing Harry’s limp cock again, and shifts it to lay over his stomach instead of his thigh. Then the brush of some sort of soap or lotion. Did Voldemort not think he cleaned himself well enough? 

“I know how to wash properly.” 

And Voldemort chuckles, deep voice ringing against the tile. “Oh, little one, that’s not why we’re here. I could use a spell to do this, of course, but I prefer the more intimate way. In a moment you’ll feel a blade against your skin. You may open your eyes but I suggest you remain still.” 

Harry freezes, eyes going wide and fixed briefly on the ceiling before he seeks Voldemort out. “You don’t need to cut me!” 

“I don’t plan to cut you. I am going to shave you. I prefer my lovers bare to me. Open and available.” Voldemort’s eyes gaze down at him and Harry can feel it, the way the man makes small alterations in his mental image of Harry. The hair will only be the first step, he knows it. 

But he does remain still as the razor presses gently against his balls. The first scrape makes him gasp in sensitivity. 

As it goes on it gets more difficult to keep still, Voldemort’s sure hands stretching and stroking the skin, turning it to get every angle, rolling Harry’s balls in his hands to feel for stubble, and then the gentle scrape of metal over his rim as the hair there is taken. Eventually the blade leaves and every swish of air seems like a teasing touch. 

Somewhere in the middle his cock began to fill and Voldemort plays with it absently as he uncorks a vial with one hand. “This is a compound to ensure the hair won’t grow back for some time. I’ll leave off using the more permanent one for now but I do expect you to apply this twice a month as part of your ablutions and upkeep for me.” 

“Oh.” Even as one hand smooths over the shaved skin, tingling slightly as he applies a thin coat of the peppermint scented potion, still the other hand plays with his cock. Not truly pumping it the way he would with wanking so much as simple touching, almost casual in the way the hand strokes. “Like the cleaning spell.” 

“Like the cleaning spell.” Voldemort releases him. “You’re doing very well, Harry. I’m certain your friends will be grateful as your good behaviour directly alters their own fates. The better you behave the more privileges are granted to your friends. Is that not a kind reward from your husband?” 

A lump catches in Harry’s throat as he carefully sits up, giving the other man plenty of time to stop him. He knows what he’s supposed to do now; he knows what he will do. “Yes, it is. Thank you, Marvolo.”

Marvolo. 

He wants to laugh at that, at the monster giving himself a name -- a posh, pratty sort of name, like most wizarding tradition -- like it will make a difference. But for others it might, those who are afraid of the name Voldemort and will be reassured he’s Voldemort no longer.

But Harry keeps his laughter to himself. He keeps his eyes down so that Voldemort won’t see it in them. Instead, to distract himself, he asks, "Have you had a lot of lovers?"

"A fair share. Perhaps more than. Nothing so recent or so serious that you need worry of me taking someone on the side." Voldemort's fingers run over Harry's chest gently and push him onto his back on the towel again. "Though perhaps you would find that more a relief, for me to have a distraction."

The idea catches him but he has no answer. He doesn’t want to be here, doing this, even though he knows he must, but the idea of waiting in that overly large bed, knowing that Voldemort is out somewhere being with someone else because Harry… 

_Because I wasn’t enough then, was I?_ “I don’t want that,” he says clearly, no longer laughing. “Waiting in bed for you to come back from… Or having you do that with someone in our bed.” He shakes his head, his hair rubbing against the towel. But he’d put up with it, wouldn’t he? No choice, really. 

“As I said, there’s no need to worry about that.” Voldemort tugs one nipple gently before drawing his wand and moving down, below where Harry can see with his head on the tile. “We’re going to try something. If it’s truly painful, more than you can bear or enough you think I’ve injured you, I will stop. Now, _engorgio_.” 

The spell barely registers before he feels the sudden, persistent stretch at his hole, the unyielding pressure of wood expanding, enlarging inside of him and making his arsehole ache with a new, strange soreness. 

“Oh. Oh, fuck.” 

A sting on his chest, a counterpoint to his hole, makes him groan as Voldemort warns, “Don’t be crude.” 

Still the plug grows slowly, unyieldingly larger. “Sorry, sorry.” 

And it stops. Still huge inside of him, still spreading him open around the ache-forming width, but no longer growing larger with every breath. He pants, biting his lips to keep from swearing as he tries to adjust, his hips twitching slightly. Then Voldemort pinches the nipple that stung and a new wave of pain crashes over his hard cock. 

It doesn’t soften. He gets his elbows underneath him, groaning deeply as rolling his hips for balance rocks the wood inside of him, and looks down. When a large hand comes up to the back of his head to support it, to help him look, he can’t not see his own body. His hard, pink cock, cockhead peeking out from beneath his foreskin, small in comparison to his husband; he’s shown his smooth, newly hairless balls, stripped of the pubic hair that only recently thickened for him, when a large hand pushes them up onto display; it makes him feel young and exposed. 

“Do you want me to look young, then? Is that a thing for you?” His voice bites out the words, accusation shaking through them, and he bites his lip quickly at his rude tone. 

Voldemort snorts. “No. I want you to be able to feel every slip of your new silk underthings against your cock and balls.” Harry groans involuntarily. And then a strong sting hits his other nipple and he looks down to see the swelling. 

His nipples are swollen, puffy, the results of stinging hexes, and Voldemort spends the next few minutes torturing them -- pinching, pulling, twisting, sucking, biting. Every new sensation tightens the ball of tension inside of Harry a little tighter, makes his newly hard cock throb a little more, and even though it hurts he must keep himself from rocking. He must because the plug pushes deep every time he so much as thinks of moving. 

“Engorgio.” 

“Oh, f-!” He bites his tongue, the sharp pain adding to every other: in his nipples, in his cock, in his achy balls, and most of all in his arse. His rim stretches further, pinching, nipping the nerves until he squirms to get away from the intense, unrelenting opening of his hole. “I can’t, I can’t,” he gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut tightly at the slow ache of it. He can barely breathe because breathing makes him shift around the hard plug. “It’s too big.” 

“Mmm.” It stops expanding. Oh, how it aches. But it stops getting bigger and he presses his head against the other man’s knee, who pets him. “There, there. Let’s allow you to get used to that for a few minutes. Lie down, little one.” 

Harry cries out when he’s lowered from his elbows to his back, the shift against his prostate nearly unbearably good. His whole body thrums with …. Not the need to come, not truly, but wave after wave of small pleasure, every strike or pinch spiking the pleasure up. 

When Voldemort’s thumb plays lightly, so lightly, over the ridge of Harry’s cockhead the younger man shouts, shaking. 

“I think one more time will do.” 

His eyes fly open and he seeks out Voldemort’s, completely black with need now. “What? No. It’s too big. I can’t -- It can’t go any bigger!” 

“Now I simply must prove you wrong. In a few minutes you’ll have adjusted enough for one more enlargement.” 

Tears burn in Harry’s eyes. He can’t! It’ll tear him open, it must, it’s so big already and the stretch is so much, too much. “It’ll tear,” he pleads. “You said you wouldn’t tear me.” 

“And it won’t. I promise that you can take more than this, pet.” Voldemort’s warm hand strokes down Harry’s bare belly, down to the cock that he pumps twice, making Harry clench around the plug. 

And the plug is a little easier to bear now. A little more comfortable. 

He doesn’t know how long they lie there, Voldemort casually petting him, Harry’s face hot with need and eyes burning with unshed tears, before the much older man brings his wand up once more. “Only a little larger now. You can take this for me, Harry.” Then a flick and -- 

Harry struggles, squirming and rolling his hips, fighting the size, the intrusion, the overwhelming invasion of it, his arse clenching around the toy, his rim burning from being opened far past its virgin state. Every clench, every shift, every breath plays against the nerves inside of him and the overly heated state of the rest of him. Voldemort reaches, strong hands holding Harry down by the neck and the low belly, and tears trickle down Harry’s cheeks as he fights to catch his breath, to protest, to fight. 

Then a sudden twist gives him friction against his cock and his entire body jerks in time with the spasms of his balls, his toes curling and limbs cramping, and he bucks hard as a heavy, pulsing warmth makes him fly. 

He can’t breathe and he doesn’t care. He could die right now and he wouldn’t care. He flies, flies, flies, his eyelids drifting shut and his limbs heavy. 

He can feel himself being moved. Feel the plug losing size. Feels the warmth of his husband’s body growing closer. But mostly he flies. 

Then Voldemort sinks all the way into him with one thrust, ripping away his virginity, and Harry blinks open his eyes. The sharp lines of Voldemort’s face loom above his and a hand cups his cheek. “Wrap your legs around my waist.” 

Harry does, changing the angle, and the next thrust in makes him moan. There’s still no pain. Yet. He remembers his nipples should hurt. His arse should probably hurt too. 

And Voldemort rubs a thumb over Harry’s mouth possessively. Every touch is possessive. Every roll of his hips feels controlled. It's all the same message -- _mine-mine-mine_ \-- and there's more dampness on Harry's cheeks. When Voldemort kisses one as he glides nearly all the way out, Harry stutters out a laugh. "The crying turns you on." 

"The tears are because you're overwhelmed. You're overwhelmed because I made you so. That arouses me, yes." And _thrust_ in, a burst of soreness finally breaking through to his body again. Harry winces and Voldemort kisses his lips this time, chastely. "Feel free to make as much noise as you need to, Harry. I enjoy the sounds you make for me.”

When a roll of the man’s hips brushes Harry’s cock he whines, feeling scraped raw and then Voldemort reaches down to take him in hand, stroking a hand up slooowly, rubbing his thumb over the slit still wet with spent come, and Harry shouts, “Stop, stop, please, stop!” until it rings in the large stone room. The tears fall freely. His arse -- he can’t even tell where that pain starts, each echo of pleasure wrapped up in pain until finally he shoves with magic. 

It throws Voldemort off him, catching himself a foot away, and Harry scrambles off the towel in terror. 

But the other man’s face softens after a moment, a spell easing some of the raw feelings invading Harry, the sensitivity dulled. He sniffles, curling up, and the bigger man reaches down to gather him up, carry him back to the big bed in the bedroom, and lay him down on his stomach. 

“Come now, pet, get your knees up under you and we’ll forget the little fit you just had.” 

And Harry does, relief making his chest pound almost as hard as the fear did. He spreads his feet wider and rolls his hips back when told and when Voldemort climbs into the bed behind him, carefully moving him until he feels the press of a cock against his hole, Harry stays still. 

It doesn’t hurt as much now. The pleasure and relief and wearing off adrenaline all making him loose and heavy, his limbs wobbling until hands on his hips take care of positioning for him. “I’m sorry for pushing you away, husband.” 

Voldemort pauses but says nothing. A moment later his hands shift Harry’s hips a little bit and Harry lets them, lets his eyes drift shut, allows another spell that makes it feel a little better or takes some sort of the soreness away. And when it does feel good, though not in the same way his cock felt good, he doesn’t hide his noises, not even by pushing his face into the duvet. The duvet’s damp beneath his face but he turns his mouth away from it. 

The other man needs to understand Harry is _sorry_ for breaking the rule. 

He’s also exhausted and lets himself drift as he’s fucked. Moaning whenever it feels good, whining when it hurts. Whining when the cock thrusts in a little too hard or his swollen nipples rub against the fabric, when a large hand reaches around to play with his limp cock again; each little pain and indignity makes him whimper. 

“Who do you belong to?” 

Harry doesn’t want to answer that but he says, “You,” quietly. 

Voldemort’s hand strokes down his back, over his spine, slowly, gently, as he thrusts. One hand keeps Harry's hips braced but the other touches him everywhere the other man can easily reach. The thrusts speed up. Then, a warning, “This is the part of the memory I’m going to show to provide proof of consummation. First, a cleaning spell.” And Harry’s face clears, no longer damp, no longer showing his weakness. “And then -- I need you to not turn your face into the duvet here.” 

“I un-derstand.” He shivers but when Voldemort’s body, big and warm and heavy, drapes further over him until Voldemort’s hands are braced parallel to Harry’s elbows, until he’s almost invisible under Voldemort except for his face, he does understand.

Voldemort doesn’t want to do this. He meant it, about not showing Harry off. About modesty. About keeping their activities private. 

Harry’s too tired to be properly relieved yet and lets his eyes close again. Then -- oh, fuck, the angle’s changed and that -- He moans low and gasps. “Ohh.” 

And Voldemort chuckles. “Feels good, little one?” 

It does, but he doesn’t say anything until the man confirms their privacy again, that this won’t be used in a memory shown to anyone. He still holds himself hot and heavy over Harry, but the weight feels more… intimate. Less like he’s a convenient hole to fuck. “I’m so tired,” he says instead of confirming it does feel good. 

“I’m close. Then you may rest for awhile.” 

Harry buries his face in the duvet now, giving a muffled, “Thanks,” before focusing on the sensations again. Easier than thinking about the facts. 

After a minute the thrusts speed up and then go erratic, no longer the easy, perfectly timed rhythm, and finally he feels -- He’s sure Voldemort’s coming, though he couldn’t say exactly what he’s feeling that lets him know. But the man stays there, inside of Harry, for some time afterward before slowly pulling out. 

It’s the plug slipping inside of him that makes Harry blow out a frustrated breath, muttering, “Oh, c’mon!” into the soft blue cotton beneath him. Still, when he does shift, when Voldemort carefully gets him to his feet at the side of the bed, the plug doesn’t _do much_. 

“It’s very short,” Voldemort answers the unasked question. “It’s only to keep you open. Your body needs a break.” 

Merlin, he’s knackered, but he cracks one eye open, disoriented at being upright for a moment. “You’re being very careful with that, aren’t you? Even though it feels like --” Too much. Too soon. Too big. Too hard. Too… everything. 

“Yes, I take care of what’s mine.” And with that he all but picks Harry up, helping him into the ridiculously high bed, and tucks him in under the covers. “Rest for a while.” 

The bed feels cold in comparison to the other man’s skin. “Aren’t you going to?” 

“No. I’ll be back soon. Sleep.” 

That’s all his body wants to do, really, so Harry nods, burrowing into the blankets. A warming charm on them makes him cozy and he drifts off before he thinks to ask where the other man is going.


	2. Sequel posted!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the benefit of everyone who has this bookmarked or subscribed to because they want to see more. This work is now part of a series and that series has a second part, which is posted now! 
> 
> [Find Part II here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701073)

This is for the benefit of everyone who has this bookmarked or subscribed to because they want to see more. This work is now part of a series and that series has a second part, which is posted now! 

[Find Part II here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701073)


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